


Vir'Nedan

by evanuris



Series: Vir'Eolas [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Buckle up, I AM WORKING ON ANOTHER FIC, Multi, ancient elf in a modern thedas, currently on hiatus, listen kids my kiddo is gonna have the worst time, lots of interpretation, lots of new world new me angst, nine years before the plot of inquisition, oh?, ready to face some existential shit amirite, she does become the inquisitor sit tight, this is the long preface to an actual solavellan fic, updates slowly sorry mate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-09-24 08:24:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9713246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evanuris/pseuds/evanuris
Summary: Through a mysterious rift in time, the elven slave, Shahra, from Arlathan appears in modern Thedas as the Fifth Blight had just passed. Lost in this world with no people that she can call her own and her home in ruins, she struggles to create a life for herself within the misinformed Dalish.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> All translations are attempted through the help of Fenxshiral's wonderful codex! I hope you guys have a nice time reading this, just as I had a good time ruining her life

Delicate chatter of the elven nobles was a luxurious delight to the usually silent halls of the grand estate. Choirs accompanied by the harmonies of speech and clinks of engraved glasses added a sense of grace; or money being thrown away in graceful manner. Guests decorated the marble pillars as they swept the floors in elegant silks, gold charms, and jingling anklets on bare feet. Despite the loud chatter and large crowd, it was hard to believe that only one slave was to be on duty at the time; Lord Amari of the House Rurak prided himself on both the elegance and the work ethic his most prized slaves demonstrated (all of which agreed that the grueling regime that Rurak had adopted could whip anyone into shape). Among nobility, only few could brag that their slaves were of such high value that they could handle the masses of snobbish elven nobles and still be alive at the end of the day; Lord Amari was delighted to have the pleasure. 

Despite the grandiose surrounding the Rurak slaves, in the shadows they were as dirty and vulgar as one could be. The servant quarters were rampant grounds of gambling, 'Beyond Parties' (because the word 'spirit orgies' wasn't socially accepted), and betting about which slave would die the next day. Of course there were rules; no nobles unless ordered, everything must be tidied at the end of the day, and slaves stick together. It was perhaps the last rule that was the most important to the Rurak slaves. They all lived their fair share of tragedies and being a slave was a lifelong one; being able to share and rely on those who endure the same plight made life seem kinder. To follow such a philosophy, jobs concerning banquets and large gatherings such as tonight's had to be fair, thus of course they left it to chance. 

So when Shahra found out she had drawn an unlucky lot, she knew her day would've been bad. 

The slave was donned in formal serving clothes, ones that only further emphasised the Lord's overly competitive nature in both money and power with the other nobles. The outfit complemented her golden eyes and the vallaslin meant for June, the dark black of her hair being a contrast that could be appreciated as an aesthetic. Shahra had to say, Lord Amari was really outdoing himself with the slave attire. When she first came, they insisted that she couldn't wear the same pasty beige dress that she had left from her previous masters, saying that the fabric didn't match her copper skin. This was all quite new at the time; slaves are not expected to look good. In Lord Amari's care, she realised that appearances were a vital component in persuasion. No one in their right mind would talk to a slave, but, if they were dressed like a wealthy slave, then the conversation had would be quite different. Though, the gold embroidery and precious gemstone mosaic of the House banner seemed a bit…overkill. 'At this rate, he's trying to out-money the entirety of the Elvhenan empire,' Shahra thought miserably as she smiled at a guest and refilled their glass with a rich red liquid. They walked away with a giddy smile, heading off towards the body of the crowd. 

It was fortunate that the wind favoured this night, no sweat forming on the furrow of her brow or stench that had to be covered regularly in luxurious perfumes to maintain the reputation of her lord. It was nice to have the gentle breeze waft in the open halls. 

Her foot tapped absent-mindedly to the mellow tempo of the drums, her hands still so delicate with the fragile beaker of wine. Lights floated above the people in the hall with both spirits and elves swaying to the music. Shahra didn't remember letting any of the spirits in but then again, who could stop them? They were one with the world and Shahra didn't have the right to deny them. Besides, they were delightful company and excellent dancers. 'Yes, those valour spirits certainly can keep a rhythm going,' she chuckled as she remembered the more elderly slaves laughing at the 'ass-shaking' desire spirits who were scantily dressed. 'I swear immaturity runs thicker when you age.'

Shahra placed down the beaker and took the moment to admire the view from the arching ways of the stone pillars that supported the building. 

Like any slave who was used to working in smaller cities, Shahra was quick to miss the work outside of Arlathan. Though her curiosity as a child rapidly converted her fear into wonder for the view; spiraling structures held together by magnificent knots of wood and crystal, towers comprised of shimmering glass surrounded by the large trees whose leaves glowed slightly as to give light in the dark but, still enjoy the stars. She could remember staring at the awe inspiring castles that floated in the air, occasionally trying to see the outline of a little person running in the wide halls that decorated the flying islands in her youth. The glowing runes of the roads guiding lost travelers to the packed markets of the lower districts and the exquisite shops of the upper districts. Magic glowered the city; you felt it, you breathed it, you were it. And that was beautiful in her eyes. She could feel it swirl within her as she sang or as she passed a spirit and shared a conversation with them. Shahra cursed herself for not being able to wield magic despite having the gift, her former master deciding that the lack of magical education was a perfect punishment for a past transgression. Fortunately enough for her, the House Rurak were kind enough to teach her how to attack assailants with any good sword.

They were, after all, fighting a war. It was always a question of 'which Evanuris do you support?' Or 'What vallaslin shall I put on this next batch of slaves?'. These were questions only the privileged seemed to ask, the poor and enslaved to endure.

She had heard the rumours however; Fen'harel was freeing the slaves. No one was sure how but it made them disappear, free from their masters supposedly. Some say that he sent them to another realm far from their masters, others that he hypnotised them to fight against the Evanuris, wanting to take their power for his own. The tension only seemed to rise with murmurs of the Kossith, a race of terrifying draconic beasts, and colossal titans that yearned for elven blood. A shiver went up Shahra's spine. 

But it wasn't like she paid any mind to the rumours, Shahra knew that the only thing in life for a slave was their duty to their masters. Running away will not make you a free man, your vallaslin giving you away before you said a word. No, Shahra cared only for the next day; what would she be doing? Would she still be alive? Nobody could determine, perhaps the Evanuris but she wasn't counting on one to be kind in this period of time.

She shook her head and returned to her duties, picking up the beaker and heading towards stray guests to refill their drinks. 'How could anyone believe the rumours? These are the same rumours from I was a kid, for the Gods sake,' she picked up empty glasses. When she was seven, maybe eight, the rumours first began about Fen'harel's…adventures. Of course, the small pocket of rebellion was quickly crushed but no one could prove his involvement and thus, he was relived of all suspicion. 'Can't that wolf just no--'

Her thoughts were interrupted. 

"Slave!" Shahra turned her head to face a (very) drunk lady waving frantically at her. Ditching the removal of the wine glasses, she made her way to the woman with haste. 

"May I help you, Esteemed one?" Shahra bowed deeply.

"Well," the lady giggled, her friends giggling beside her as if the conversation was a jest, "I was, well, wondering, hehe, what you thought about the whole Fen'harel business." More giggles followed.

"Of course it doesn't know, Ahvehn," another red-faced lady laughed, waving her bright green bag in Shahra's face, "slave politics are completely different!" More giggles. 'Giggling? Is that all they can do?' 

"You honour me with your interest in my opinion, my Lady," Shahra smiled, hopeful that in their drunken haze they wouldn't see the strain behind it, "however, it is not my place to judge such noble politics." 

"Oh, come on~" Ahvhen, Sharha deducted, drawled, "I won't tell Lord Amari~."

"Oh yes, this should be interesting! Do share~!" The Green Bag Lady commented afterwards. It was interesting indeed; they were much nicer when drunk. Shahra assumed that they were far more frivolous and…demanding when sober.

"As you wish," Shahra began, "I believe that--"

"Sorry to interrupt, ladies," A masculine voice came from behind her and Shahra took a step to the side to move from his way, "I noticed that you were having a…delightful conversation about politics." The first thing Shahra noticed was the golden wolf mask covering his face and the vibrant blue eyes that shone through the darkness. He seemed dangerous. 

"Oh no," Ahvehn cooed, "I don't mind being interrupted by an enticing stranger."

"Neither do I!" giggled the Green Bag lady. 'Again with the giggling. These nobles are certainly lacking in creativity.' The man chuckled, his long dark brown braids moving with the actions. Shahra saw little silver rings twirling within his hair nicely, accenting the silver the lined his clothes. Speaking about his clothes, they were of a quality that she didn’t expect even Amari to wear. High-quality silk sank over his broad shoulders, fur outlining the collar and merging with the coat that met his bare feet. By the Gods, he even smelt good. Why did the hot ones seem so dangerous? 

"Naturally. I'm afraid I interrupted for a purpose, " he turned to face Shahra and his eyes seem to tinkle with some mischief in mind, "Lord Amari graciously promised me a tour led by one of his most prestigious slaves." A tour? That's all he wanted? Maybe Shahra was wrong about this day being completely bad although his flattery seemed a bit strange. Regardless, it was probably the influence of her Lord's bragging. 

"It would my pleasure, my lord," she bowed to him and then to the ladies, "I thank you for your time, exalted ladies." The man bowed his head slightly as a farewell and bid Shahra to follow him. 

"Is there any place you would like to begin, my lord?" She could see him ponder as they passed the gold-veined pillars of marble surrounding the hall. Past them would be the outer balconies that led to the main gardens. Lord Amari praised these gardens (like most of his possessions) and cared for them meticulously. 

"Lord Amari did mention his gardens," Shahra swore that he was smirking underneath that mask, "it would be pleasant to enjoy your company by the flowers."

"Ah, you flatter me too much, my lord," Shahra smiled and gestured to the outer balconies, "please, follow me."

They began a slow walk to the view of the outer balconies. It was a clear night, the glow of the magic that flowed within the city giving enough light to see the wonderful splendor of the buildings around them. Crystal was a common element for decor but even from high above, one could see the emeralds and other precious gems outlining the curving branches of official buildings. The sparkles of the glassy surfaces were only second to the shine of the stars; bright balls of light sprinkling the night sky like diamonds on thick black wool over the world. They could see the faint outline of spirits walking by, too engrossed in the smooth rhythm of music to notice the pair's existence. Chirps of insects and the muffled noises of small spoken voices was littered among the silence that the pair possessed. Shahra admitted to herself that it was a nice change to the loud chatter of the main hall. No doubt they had already replaced her position as she gave the mysterious gentleman a tour. Despite a preference for the silence, she wasn't particularly against the man starting a conversation with her.

"Fen'harel seems a popular topic for discussion,"Shahra turned her head slightly towards the man in curiosity, "I don't know whether to be worried about that wolf or be jealous because all the beautiful ladies are talking about him."

"It is true, the Evanuris has been a much discussed topic lately," Shahra confirmed, "I've been told it's a matter to worry about rather than to envy." A small laughter came from the man, his fingers brushing stray wisps of brown hair behind his ear. 

"Oh? Is that so. Tell me, what's your opinion on the whole situation?" The request wasn't so outlandish as Shahra would've liked. Politics was an important part of a slave's life but, with lovely sights as the ones she was currently witnessing, it seemed more like a distant chore to endure; this chore a far more difficult task as she didn't particularly care an awful lot.

"That's a difficult question to answer, my lord."

"I thought it was a strict yes or no system with this one? Perhaps your feelings are more…complicated." 'He's messing with me. Messing. With. Me.' disbelief filled her system. It wasn't an uncommon fact that many found Fen'harel attractive but Shahra hadn't ever seen the man and all she'd ever heard of him was that he was building a secret slave army! 

"I assure you I hold no special 'feelings' for Fen'harel."

"So, I can deduce that you hate him?"

"No, my lord," Shahra shook her head slightly ,"I simply don't know enough to make a decision. I am honoured that you ask it of me however." The night darkened with each passing second, not a sound escaping from the man besides his footsteps. 'I wonder what he thinks of that,' Shahra pondered, following the curve of the stone railing to the garden stairs. 

"Not enough knowledge," he murmured, "I suppose it’s wise that you make that choice. Or, foolish in this time of tension to not pick a side." She contained a scoff. Was he making some sort of joke?

"You are, of course, correct that I must be on a side, but I am a slave, my lord. My side is my master's." Yes, Lord Amari's needs were first on her mind. Endless chores gave her life some meaning, maybe even comfort in the knowledge that she could do something; be someone, even if they are as insignificant as a bug on the foot of Mythal. A slave's concerns should not lie in politics, only in the needs of their masters. 

As they walked down the garden's stairs, a bitter chuckle emanated from him. 

"Yes, I forgot," the mood felt colder, more sinister, "silly me." Some negative emotion caused some spirits around to have a look of fear for but a second, before scurrying on their way. Who was this man to cause fear in the spirits? He didn't seem powerful yet, most powerful men don't. 

'I'm thinking too much into this. The spirits react to emotions around them, even the weak ones.' The pair followed the stone pathway through the over-reaching vines and sheltering willows. Flowers swayed with the evening breeze, gentle petals caressing the bare ankles of the pair. Soft grass eventually conquered the stone path and they were left to wander the garden on the pillowy stalks that tickled their feet and admire the variety of flora that enticed eyes to adore. The delicate view evoked a desire to push her limits, to be polite but also answer the man's question. How could she? She couldn't insult the wolf and then risk her master's reputation. However, complimenting could endure the same danger. It was difficult. 

Perhaps it would be strategically a better move to ask for permission. Refusal would not risk her master's reputation nor the savoury mood that had recovered with the garden views. Approval would allow her to answer and still be polite.

Doesn't one love it when a plan comes together?

"I do have one thing to say on the matter, if you'll allow me." Shahra asked cautiously. The pair stopped at a stone slab that overlooked a tiny pond. 

"I have no qualms against hearing your input," he sat upon the stone slab, "do go on."

"I believe that this…business is a tricky one," Shahra picked her words carefully, "Fen'harel is an Evanuris in all his right. He has done much for Arlathan and these rumours are not being too kind on him."

"Not being too kind? Don't most slaves see him as a hero?" The man sounded bewildered, cocking his head to the side and resting his palms on his legs.

"Hero? They are rumours, nothing more. But, they are preventing others to give him the rights he deserves as a God. No noble, no, anyone, should be able to ridicule such a being with propaganda most likely driven by envious parties yearning for power."

"So you don't see him as anything special other than an Evanuris? Not a hindrance? Or a trickster? Or maybe even a hunk of a god with impeccable abs and glorious hair?" He joked. Shahra found herself laughing at the comment and actually, surprised that she felt as if she could. 

"To be honest with you, my lord, I haven’t even seen him. Not once in my life. As for his reputation as a trickster, he is the God of Rebellion." It was true. Shahra was old enough to be considered an adult even by the elders' standards yet never once had she seen Fen'harel. She felt quite disrespectful not even knowing his name beside the title given to him in accordance to the rumours. 

"Really?! That's…" 

"Not a good thing," she laughed, "I do respect him, even if it doesn't seem like it. Songs are very kind to the wolf."

"Songs? Minstrels always did make the rebellious one sexy. I've seen some _very_ evocative dances inspired by such depictions." He raised his hands as if mimicking the same actions of a minstrels playing a harp.

"Yes, I do believe I've danced a few."

"Danced?"

"Yes, my Lord, I am a performer for the House Rurak." Dances were a scared ground for Shahra, movements meant to be shared with the audience and replicated with rhythm by her partners. Her songs were meant to soothe the souls of her people, share their plight and weave tales of treachery, epic battles, and soft epilogues. She wasn’t good with a sword and her magical ability non-existent, but, in this time there were enough killers. Sometimes, the world needed to pause and enjoy the music around them. 

"Interesting. Do you offer private dances?" The joking tone of his voice was flirtatious; dangerous. 

"You would have to contact my master," she tipped her head to the seated man, "it would be my honour performing in front of you." 

After a moment spent savouring the comedy of their conversation, Shahra gestured towards the end of the garden. They had passed the majority of the large area, seeing the various plants that Lord Amari had placed great care into collecting. The final part of the tour was the small pavilion at the end of the garden. It was secluded, meant for the Lord to bring his guests and speak privately. Shahra had been there once before but never forgot the spectacular thrill of beauty as she laid her eyes on it for the first time. She remembered a white stone swirling up into pillars that reached the roof like little vines, so detailed in carving that it astonished her. Alas, Lord Amari had done some renovations so the surrounding environment would be completely foreign to her.

He stood up and followed the slave into the clearing that housed the pavilion. It was clear of any fancy flowers, likening it to the soft wildness of the countryside. The pavilion still stood in the centre of the clearing, the white stone still glistening with gold. It wasn't too far, but far enough for Shahra not to pay attention to the slight green haze emitting from the small building. 

A small shiver went down her spine as she approached, her insides churning with an unknown feeling, a bad feeling. 

"What in the Gods' names is that?" The man exclaimed as Shahra took a step back. In the centre of the pavilion was some sort of green haze, expanding and contracting crystals drawing all comfort in her the longer she looked. Her body felt dull as if this…this thing pulled away all life from her. She wanted to get away. She felt as if she needed to. It wasn't safe, let alone natural.

"My lord, please, stand back! I'll inform the guards of this straight away." She turned to escape the haze, desperation to get away filling her heart. However, when she looked back the man was still standing.

Was he…smiling?

"My lord! Please, I beg you to come with me! It's not safe!" She yelled. Why was she yelling? Why could she hear some sort of song? This wasn't right. This wasn't right. They had to get away. 

"I think…this is from the Beyond? But, the Beyond is here? How…?" He still stood, questioning it. He was close to it, on the pavilion yet not touching it. This wasn’t right.

"This is not the time, my Lord! It's...It's not natural! We need to go!" Shahra pleaded, running to the pavilion and grabbing his arm, attempting to pull him away. Being here, seeing this. This wasn't right. This wasn't right. They weren't supposed to be here. 

"It’s fascinating. It's definitely the Beyond but it's existing from, well, two different places! We should--watch out!" Shahra barely had time to turn her head before she felt a sharp pain in her abdomen. Looking down, she saw the head of an arrow clearly engraved with the crest of Rurak. 

Time slowed as she stumbled, blood ran over her fingers. Not jittery from the shock but instead the pull of the green. Why was the song now beautiful? Was she dying? Had she a chance to live? 

She could hear yells of anger; miscommunication.

_"I------she----spy----assassin------Gods"_

_"-----no----idiots-------slave----she"_

_"Lord------Fen'harel"_

Fen'harel.

How strange it was that his name would stick as she fell into the green, blood dribbling through her fingers and pounding in her ears. A haunting melody drove her into the darkness, her feet losing balance on the ground and her mind unsure of why. Her heart was still gripped in panic and soon her body followed. She was right. She should've left. She should've gone to get the soldiers. But what would've happened to her companion? Would he be in her position? No, they both weren't meant to be there.

It wasn't right. 

_It wasn’t right._


	2. First Meeting, Last Memoir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> f i n a l l y

_Screams. She could hear screams. Flashes of fire. Metal against metal. She could feel the magic disappearing from everyone, like a part of them ripped from their being; she could see it cling to them as tears streamed down their face as it left. The spirits crying for help as they were dragged beyond the physical realm out of sight._

_Who was hurting them? Why?_

_A child screamed Mamae before a crude gurgle escaped the same throat as Shahra could only watch, her hands held out in front of her yet unable to move. Blood flowed down her hands, down her face, down her legs, down her soul. The red overflowed over her body. 'Who is doing this!?' she cried but her voice was but a whisper to the screaming of the memory._

_She wanted it to stop._

_Why was she seeing this? Elves but not elves. No sharp ears like those she was used to. Who were they? Why were they here? Slaves, thousands upon thousands upon thousands and thousands._

_Walking, falling, dying._

_Halamshiral, she could hear they cry in happiness. Was this the end of their journey? Then why was there more pain to be dealt? Freedom faltered and they were crushed by the feet of prejudiced martyrs. Culture was lost to the wind of war._

_Quick. Unforgiving. Forgotten._

_Like Arlathan._

_Like her._

The shaking of her shoulders tore her from the dream, her heart beating furiously. It was for only a moment that the world felt numb, the cold sweat digging into Shahra's skin. Fingers searched for a familiar roughness of a slave's blanket but met only fur and smooth cloth. She was…in a bed? Soft wool comforted her bare back, Shahra only now noticing the lack of clothing. How did she get here? Where were her clothes? Where was her master? 

Shahra could feel something rustling near the area the arrow hit. In her confusion, she shot forward and felt a jolt of pain rushing to her skull as she hit something else.

Someone else, it seemed from the yelp of pain that followed.

"By the Creators," they shouted something incomprehensible to Shahra’s ears, "you, _lethallan_ , have a tough skull."

'Blood sister? Who was this person and why use blood sister in the midst of gibberish?' Shahra thought, raising a hand to her temple where she made the impact. Slowly, she opened her eyes to see her surroundings. 

A rustic leather tent sheltered her, even from here she could see the faint outline of trees casting a shadow on top of her. The smell was a mixture of manure, urine, blood, and sweat that made her stomach clench in nausea and her nose to scrunch up in disgust. It was alike to the stables in the country, young Halla roaming (and excreting) everywhere while medical attention was received. Not the best environment to heal a wound, but those without riches had to do.

"I'm glad to see you awake. You scared us, you know. That arrow wound…" Shahra turned her attention to the person that she knocked her forehead on. Frowning, she cocked her head. 'What is this person saying?' she thought. It was certainly not Elvhen and unlike anything, she had heard before. Shahra assumed that they were talking about her wound though, seeing as they gestured towards the mass of bandages that lined her abdomen.

"My name is Belraj, I'm First to Clan Himsulem's Keeper Enaste. _Andaran atish'an_." The elf bore the mark of Mythal, printed in a deep green colour that contrasted greatly with the man's light skin and bright green eyes. He didn't seem much, shaggy brown hair and lanky figure not giving the elf any justice. It was strange. Slaves were meant to build more muscle to serve, yet this one seemed too weak. Perhaps he was solely a magic user, his master not liking the aesthetic of dancing blades.

The name he gave was…interesting. Belraj was common enough as a first name in the slums where most slaves were born; Himsulem, a name of a noble family on the other hand.

'Perhaps Lord Himsulem will tell me where Arlathan is from here.'

She needed to speak to his master. 'His Lord should be able to tell me where I am. I need to return to Lord Amari as soon as possible,' she struggled to move her legs without a sharp pain attacking her stomach.

"Woah! Nooo. You're not permitted to move, _lethallan_ ," Again, more words she didn't understand, "the wound hasn't closed yet. Unless you have a death wish, you're staying down."

Anger bubbled inside her, confusion lost in the swirl. He kept saying blood sister, and she had never met him in her entire life. Shahra wouldn't have been frustrated at the use of the word, but considering how she didn't understand the rest of his sentences, it was beginning to test her patience.

"Belraj." She spoke, her voice hoarse. The elf turned at the mention of his name and smirked.

"Oh? It speaks."

"Where am I?" Shahra ignored his speech. She didn’t know what he was saying and she didn’t have time to figure it out. Returning to Lord Amari was her first priority. Belraj looked confused before his face morphed into surprise.

"You're…you're speaking Elven," He murmured, "How? How is that even possible?" Annoyance pumped through her heart, spreading to every inch of her bones. In an attempt to let loose the growing frustration, Shahra began to move her legs once more. Belraj shook his head and spoke to her again.

"Must you keep saying lethallan? I do not know you." Shahra spoke firmly.

"Uh, let's see. I know ' _tel'eolasan_ ' and ' _ma_ '," Belraj mused, running a hand through his hair, "so, you're saying you don't know me? Uh, _Ar ame_ Belraj. And then, uh, um, _ame_ … what was that again...? Ah yes, _ame Sael. Ar ame Belraj i ame Sael_." The man produced a small leather notebook, stood up, and ruffled through loose papers and bags.

Shahra stayed on the bed, perplexed by the elf. In the mess of gibberish that escaped the man's mouth, he managed to slip in Elvehn.

'I am Belraj and I am First? What's a First? A First slave? What a strange Lord he must have. Not to mention he speaks like a toddler. Perhaps…?' Shahra didn't think that not knowing Elvhen was a thing until now and it occurred to her that they had a basic understanding of the language. 'Yes, just talk like he's a toddler. Maybe he'll understand?'

"Uh, I am Shahra. Where, um, this?" Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Here she was, the House Rurak's most prized and prime slave, speaking like a barbarian. The elf turned quickly and his eyes seemed alight with interest.

"Oh! You said your name was Shahra. Uh, ' _iras_ '? That's…" He flicked to his notebook, skimming over whatever was written there in a hurry. "…There! You're asking where you are! By the Gods, I didn't think this would ever happen to me! A fluent Elven speaker!" Shahra chuckled nervously at his excitement. It was indeed as if he was a child, understanding the words of an adult for the first time. It was…saddening. 'Everyone should be taught how to speak, at the very least. I'm privileged enough to be taught how to read and write, but this one doesn't even know how to speak,' Shahra looked at Belraj with pity.

"Anyways, uh, _ar'an ane_ , um, _adahl'en or Arlathan_. Yes, that should be right." More scribbles in the notebook followed.

"The Forest of Arlathan? There is no such thing." Shahra retorted. Arlathan was a magnificent city, with lights that shone through the horizon and above the small buildings of the slums. She had never heard of a forest near Arlathan so big that it would be named after the glory of the Elvhenan empire itself.

"Um, ' _tel'eal_ '? Don't…be? The Forest of Arlathan don't…be? It doesn't exist?" Belraj shook his head gently. "How can that be? It's been here for, well, millennia. It's hard to miss." Shahra guessed that he disagreed. 'Poor soul; delusional and uneducated,' whatever anger she had left, if fled when her overwhelming pity for the elf came. Shahra reprimanded herself for allowing her attention to be diverted again. Regardless of her feelings, she realised how much time she was wasting; she needed to get home.

"I, ah, sorry. Where be your master?" The embarrassment was less now, but still light pink dusting covered her cheeks.

"My ' _tarlin_ '?," Belraj looked intently at his book, pages flying so rapidly Shahra doubted he indeed read them all, "my…master?" A look of both anger and hurt crossed his face, a tense silence filling the tent. 

Did she say something wrong? Shahra looked once again to Belraj. Yes, he definitely had a vallaslin, so why was he reacting like he didn’t?

“You have vallaslin. So, where your master?” She frowned, gesturing to her own vallaslin as an example. 

“Vallaslin? How does that relate to master?” Belraj scoffed yet the look of hurt was plastered on his face. 

How can they not understand? One can be uneducated, Shahra held no judgement there, but, not knowing what a vallaslin is and placing it upon your face? Willingly? What were these elves?

Perhaps they didn’t like modern elves and made their own customs and language. It would explain their strange ways of speech and culture (despite the far-fetched nature of theory), but not their vallaslin. Wouldn’t a Lord claim them for their own because of their vallaslin? They basically sold themselves away. 

Shahra opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted as a man entered the tent. Belraj turned to face the man and lowered his head slightly in acknowledgment. She looked at the man; a dark, sickly complexion comprised this man’s face, the Falon’din vallaslin on his face faded to a dull blue. His eyes were a deep brown, the same colour as the various moles that seemed to cover his body. 

In all honesty, Shahra would’ve found the man attractive if he didn’t seem a couple centuries older than her. She herself was a tender age of 206 years so she had no doubt in her mind that others would be much older. 

Belraj turned to the man and placed a hand on his shoulder. 

“Keeper, I am glad to see you,” Belraj glanced over his shoulder and gestured to Shahra, “I was going to send Atheril to you but… I got carried away.” The man just laughed and smiled at Belraj. Was this the leader of their ‘tribe’? Could this person tell her where Arlathan was? 

The man looked over to Shahra before returning his gaze to Belraj and grinning.

“ _Da’len_ , perhaps next time I’ll allow Taren to stay with the girl,” The man laughed as if he was telling a joke as Belraj looked to the side and crossed his arms, “maybe then I would be informed straight away. But what has been done, has been done. Let me see the girl.”

“Of course, Keeper,” Belraj held out a hand in Shahra’s direction. The man had a strange walk; limping almost yet not. His gait moved like a lightning bolt yet not as fast and just as jagged. It seemed it would take some time to reach the chair that sat beside the bed but the man promptly sat himself down as if he wished to challenge her thoughts. 

He looked at Shahra and smiled. It was a warm smile, one she had not seen in a long time. This certainly was a strange master.

“Hel--”

“Keeper,” Belraj interrupted, “It seems she doesn’t actually speak common. She speaks Elven.” The man looked at Belraj confused.

“Elven? Fluently?” The man questioned.

“Yes, fluently.” 

“Hmm,” the man placed a hand on his chin before looking up to Belraj, “will you introduce me? I know you’re the clan’s Elven expert.” Belraj nodded his head and moved a hand towards Shahra.

“Go ahead, Keeper.” 

The man looked at Shahra and began to speak.

“Hello, my name is Enaste. I am this clan’s Keeper.” Shahra raised an eyebrow at the gibberish. Enaste was his name it seemed, yet, she knew nothing else. She looked at Belraj expectantly; he had spoken Elvhen before, even if it was just little. 

Belraj spoke slowly as if the courage in him had faded. Eventually, he got the message across, yet Shahra still had more questions. What was a Keeper? What were they keeping?

It seemed she had no time for questions left, however. 

“Belraj,” Enaste stood up from the chair and began to walk towards the exit of the tent, “we should leave her to her rest. Let us see what Ahrehnen has brought back from her hunt.” He limped to the exit and waved a hand goodbye to Shahra. 

“Rest up, _da’len_ , you have a journey ahead of you,” Enaste spoke as he left the tent. Belraj followed soon after, leaving Shahra sitting by herself.

It had been strange, she would not deny it. First, she falls into the Green and dreams of the fall of Arlathan. Then, she meets strange elves with vallaslin that are not slaves and didn’t speak the language of their people. What was the strangest in Shahra’s opinion was her wound.

None could survive such an arrow wound. It would pierce the vital organs and kill her quickly, leaving her to bleed to death. 

She had watched Lord Amari hunt, drawing a gold bow carved with Andruil’s blessings and taking aim, his sharp eyes seeing the prey before they even knew of their existence. 

She had seen runaway slaves being shot, lying on the dirt paths in the forest coughing up blood and crawling, leaving a trail of red in their final attempts of freedom. It was perhaps this thought that frightened her the most. Was she considered a runaway slave at this point? That would explain why she was shot by her own charge. However, she was still on the property, doing what had been requested of her. 

Perhaps, it was because she did not protect the man she accompanied. He was, by her master’s standards, an extension of her charge. 

Shahra understood the simpler things such as these. It certainly wasn’t comforting knowing that she now couldn’t return to Arlathan for fear of being prosecuted, but, not having to figure out the complexity of her situation was reassuring as well. 

It meant that for now, she could learn more of these elves and their culture. Shahra chuckled as she began to lie back down, entertaining the thought of learning their language. 

‘No one would know what I was saying except for this tribe.’

She laid there on the bed, reveling in the comfort of the fur and soft blankets. Her eyes shut gently, her breathing steadied; she didn’t realise how tired she was, despite only waking for a few moments. 

‘Sleep now,’ she murmured to herself, ‘you have all the time you need.’ 

A breeze could be heard gently wafting through the trees outside, the rustling of the leaves coupled with the soft buzz of insects lulling her to sleep. It reminded her of the country, plains filled with bountiful crops and dashing Halla. The sun that shone in the sky, beating down on the land below and shining a light on the children that danced there. Spirits gently watching the world as it passed, speaking to those who wished and sharing their endless wisdom.

Even Arlathan, with its spires and plentiful buildings, had music. A lively music that she danced to, that she performed to. She could feel her arms twisting up like the horns of the Halla, her hips swaying with the rhythm and precious jewels rattling in time with the music. It was fast paced, but there was a subtle peace to be found; in the awe of the crowd, in the silence after, in the perfect steps of a dance. A smile appeared on her face as her mind drifted to the small joys that existed in her life.

And with the cooing of the birds, their song persuaded her mind to sleep, filling her head with memories of home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a more technical note; my method of conveying whether someone is speaking is common or not is quite obvious at this point. I've been putting Elvish that is being said by a non-native elvish speaker in both italics and Elvish writing e.g. da'len and just writing the rest in nice plain English. 
> 
> I am planning to do this up until I say differently, but, I am welcome to any advice. After all, I want my readers to be happy lmao! 
> 
> btw, yes I have planned this whole thing (that means all THREE parts lmao) I'm just lazy and yes, I do have other DA stories in mind that don't entirely focus on the Inquisitor/Warden/Hawke
> 
> As always, thank you for being patient with me and for reading this fic ! who knows, maybe next week I'll have something up too ;D


	3. To Know is To Hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i used two puns in this and I don' even regret,, also ha welcome to the update that i said would be next week but i got excited did it the day after

Shahra spent two weeks inside the dusty tent, listening intently to the voices of the people outside. Often times, she had heard Belraj speaking to Enaste, but could never decipher what they were saying.

She began to pick up random words from this; ‘Chantry’, ‘humans’, and, ‘hunt’ were the most common. Whenever ‘hunt’ was mentioned, less voices could be heard until they returned with large cheers of happiness. ‘Was this their word for hunt?’, Shahra had thought.

Soon enough, a portion of food would be sent to the tent by an elf she knew by Jaris. Jaris was a skinny man with thick, blonde hair running down his shoulders, the left side shaved. He had a dark complexion, a brilliant mocha that seemed to glow with the black vallaslin of Ghila’nain on his face.

Jaris seemed like this tribe's version of a Halla keeper, always smelling of the gentle beasts when he visited her. On top of that, he seemed quite nervous about talking to her. Shahra had noticed that he spoke but always managed to shake his head after a few ramblings.

From these awkward ramblings however, Shahra had learnt more words, even phrases.

What the tribe spoke was called Common; it was a widespread language that covered the land they referred to as Thedas. There were other tribes such as these and referred to themselves as the Dalish.

Jaris had mentioned something that Shahra didn’t understand particularly either (not that she understood the majority of what he was saying regardless). In fact, this phrase was repeated quite often around the tribe.

She heard it at night when nightmares about the Green haunted her thoughts and plagued her sleep. Panting heavily, Shahra would turn towards the thin leather of the tent and listen to the others voices, soothing her.

They would speak of many things, her heart lurching when she heard names such as ‘Elvehnan’, ‘Halamshiral’, and especially, ‘Arlathan’. However, she sensed a more somber mood being evoked and often times felt both confused and embarrassed. Despite this, Shahra continued to listen to the music of their voices until the phrase appeared.

‘We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path. We are the last elvhen. Never again shall we submit.’

What did this mean?

The only way she remember the entirety of it was because of how many times they repeated it, like a mantra to keep their souls anchored. But to what? She tried asking, but her vocabulary was too little. She felt like child, lost in her own language, her own culture and understandings. She didn’t belong here, so why was she thrusted into this life?

It was then she realised a vital truth; she was no longer where she had been previously. Now this seemed like an obvious thing at first (she definitely wasn’t in Arlathan) but it was deeper than that.

Arlathan didn’t exist anymore, in its place a forest filled with ruins; the Elvehnan Empire had crumbled millennia ago.

Those images of Arlathan falling were real; they were imprints of the event in the Beyond. Shahra had witnessed many such instances of this when she was home, but never for the destruction of all she knew.

This revelation had caused anguish most certainly. Shahra weeped for her people and how they had lost everything. Thousands of years filled with slavery, prejudice, hardship, and ignorance left her once mighty people in ruin, scattered across the land still trying to find whatever they can to reconcile with their history.

But how could they?

Arlathan was burned to the ground by the round-eared elves that as far as Shahra knew, had no name but the one she invented for them; Murderers. Despite the power of the Evanuris, they had somehow managed to bring Arlathan down and raze it to the ground.

Perhaps, she had allowed this.

The Green was something that was never meant to be there at the pavilion that night. The man himself stating that it was as if the Beyond was existing from two places at once, which certainly wasn’t possible. By Shahra falling into it however, she could have triggered the start of her home’s end.

It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

Regardless, this conclusion meant two things.

One, she could never return to her home in any sense. Arlathan was now just a spoken tale, a rough sketch in an old history book that Shahra could never understand. It would be the bloodied jewel of pride that rested on the breast of the Murderers. The nature of Arlathan would be her secret, her own personal haven where her home could replay in the Beyond. No longer could she call herself of the People, her People. They were all gone and there was a chance she caused their demise; she had no right to the title.

Two, she had to find a way to fix what she had broken and then return to her duties. Her loyalties lay with House Rurak. If Lord Himsulem managed to have his name survive all the hardship her People had faced, why not her more honourable and wealthier Lord Amari do the same? She had to find the Rurak tribe and commit herself to their service.

After all, once a slave, always a slave.

As long as June’s vallaslin was etched into her face, she was branded. Covered in the thick sludge of slavery. She could not escape as what would happen without it? She had seen freedom and it was an arrow in the back. It was a cruel rumour that people spread in order to test loyalties and kill those with lingering thoughts of rebellion.

Fen’harel knew this and that’s why he did it. As the God of Rebellion, that was his job, his nature! The other Evanuris did nothing as they knew it was his nature! So why couldn’t the slaves realise it too?

Shahra knew that many of those that ‘joined’ whatever group Fen’harel had created previously were in fact fresh slaves, or ones that were free but still were confined by the burdens of a vallaslin.

Shahra wouldn’t deny that many times a slave would be pardoned and given rights as a free citizen, but the vallaslin wouldn’t be taken off; none could afford that leisure.

She knew only one tale about this happening however. It was about an elf called Misyl Tanyathar who had her left hand cut off in the place of her master’s. In return for this, her master allowed her freedom and even paid for her vallaslin to be removed! An outrageous tale, one that allowed false hope, and consequently cost slaves’ lives.

Nevertheless, Shahra had no delusions of escaping her duties. It was her purpose in life, and she would not deny it.

Well, once Belraj would let her out of the bed.

Her wound was now a thick scar, a permanent reminder of her mistake. Despite this, Belraj deemed it fit that she stayed in the bed until further notice.

Somehow, she had convinced Belraj to let her keep the arrow head; now more a symbol of pride than of regret. It was silver, carved with the crest of House Rurak; the twisting horns of the Halla on the sides, surrounding an elegant letter ‘R’. Well, what it was in Elvehn.

When Belraj inspected it, he reacted like he couldn’t read it. He pointed to it and asked her what it was but how could she answer him?

Shahra knew she couldn’t exactly tell him it was Elvhen so she just shrugged her hands. Slowly, she attempted to construct a story of masked men that ambushed her, using a variety of gestures and phrases she had heard around.

It led to a strange situation however for she didn’t know the word for ambush or masked, so Shahra had to suffice with ‘hunt’ and covered her face.

It seemed that Belraj had gotten the idea though and nodded sympathetically towards her.

“We are close to Antiva,” he had said as he placed a hand on her shoulder, “We’re all glad you’re alive.” Shahra had only smiled and hoped it was the right expression to use in this case.

It was strange that she was reminiscing now about what had happened in the past two weeks. Time was something that had always moved slowly for Shahra, as for all elves she supposed. But here, death seemed normal. No one lived long lives. For Shahra, time was a source that never ended. Only the Elders would take their eternal sleep with the purpose of gaining more knowledge. What is death to the immortal? Of course, flesh could be pierced and the heart would stop due to excessive wounds, but they were not at war, were they?

As Shahra interpreted, something terrible had happened in the past year, something Jaris referred to as the ‘Blight’. When Shahra had mentioned the word to Belraj, he simply shook his head and said that there were no words for it in Elvehn.

It was strange being in a world where she didn’t know anything. Shahra felt like the Elders that she had seen sleep, her skin seeming young but she knew it should be wrinkled and frail. Her joints worked fine, her body still fit from years of harsh training yet her mind was that of hunched elder, walking in the dark because their eyes lost sight.

Such strange thoughts she had. Shahra shook her head and paused, listening for the sounds of the tribe.

Shahra heard the sounds of chatter and laughter amidst the crackling of a flame. Were they cooking something? The smell of freshly cooked meat wafted into the tent, tempting her to sit up and yearn for some food.

Her stomach rumbled loudly, demanding a portion of the source of the heavenly smell.

‘Shahra just wait,’ she chastised, ‘Jaris will bring you food, you glutton.’ However, her protests weren’t enough to quell her hunger.  Sighing, she attempted to stand up. Moving the fur and blankets off her legs, she noticed the bareness of her skin. Nakedness was something she never thought she’d get used to, but here she was. Now, where were her clothes?

Looking around the tent, she noticed the familiar shine of her party uniform and underneath it the leather of her pants among Belraj’s belongings. If one could call them belongings comprising of only books and loose sheets of paper.

Shahra moved so that her feet now touched the ground, her toes relished in the feeling of plump grass once more. Hesitating, she began to stand.

Her feet weren’t used to being used and Shahra could feel the strain of her muscles as she attempted to put her weight on them. Falling back onto the bed, she bit her lip and tried again.  

It was difficult regaining her balance and she was forced to use the bed as a makeshift  crutch. With shaky knees, Shahra began her first steps towards the other side of the small tent. It couldn’t have been far, about a metre from her current position so she urged herself on.

Slowly, she made her way to the other side of the tent. She sighed a breath of relief.

‘Shahra, you are fantastic,’ she cheered, gripping the clothes as some sort of trophy. Fortunately, the way back was far easier as her feet got used to the movement. Taking advantage of this fact, she slipped on her clothes.

As she was putting on her shirt, Shahra paused and looked at it. The shining jewels of the uniform now seemed foreign, of another time. The gold embroidery swirled around the Rurak banner, laid out with precious gems and stones on a beautiful, deep green fabric. Gently, she ran a finger along the golden string, feeling it’s almost silky texture against her forefinger. Her finger stopped at a small imperfection; at the abdomen.

The arrow.

Looking closer, Shahra could see how it seemed almost nonexistent, as if it didn’t happened. She inspected it, admiring the needlework of the one that had repaired it. The only people she had knowledge of were Jaris and Belraj and neither of them had admitted to fixing her clothes. So who was it?

Shahra would’ve spent more time wondering but she realised that she had yet to put on her shirt so she slipped it over her head and straightened it out.

She felt ready to leave the tent now, no longer naked and still just as hungry. Shahra tided the bed, draping the soft blankets and fur over the hard surface in a neat manner. Looking to the exit, she sighed and began to walk.

She paused. By her doing this, she would accept her fate.

Was she ready to face the world that had left her behind? Was she ready to forget all she knew and enter again as a newborn, yet centuries older than her peers? Her culture, her language, her People, her home; all forgotten to the cruel nature of time? She, the final living artifact of the Elvhen, could allow the complete death of what was? Shahra couldn't deny the futility of it all; even if she clung to the past, how long could she take pride in loneliness? This new life would grant just the same loneliness yet without the dead glory of a long gone history, just her own actions. So the question remained: Would she forget?

As she exited the tent with a heavy heart, it seemed that the answer was 'yes'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hungry shahra on the prowl chomp chomp
> 
> EDIT: I am going back and re-editing some phrasing and stuff. Feel free to point out stuff lmao


End file.
